


Crisis

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 12:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11990127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: Oh God, what on earth has he done, she asks herself, distinctly remembering hearing the sound of breaking glass before all the shouting started.





	Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> A few words of romantic silliness commissioned by Joodiff to break through a bout of writer's block. Enjoy, or not. :) xx

**Crisis**

* * *

Grace is just putting the last piece of her outfit in place – a large, gauzy, vibrantly patterned scarf wound around her neck and left dangling at the front – when there is an explosion of sound from the kitchen below her feet. Instinct makes her want to run down there and ensure all that is well; long and practised experience of the man who suddenly starts shouting and cursing and bellowing in the wake of the noise subsiding tells her not to.

Instead she checks her appearance in the tall mirror attached to her wardrobe door, critically appraising herself. A slight adjustment here, a quick swipe at an errant lock of hair there… she looks good, she decides. And well equipped to deal with the chill of the building she is going to spend the better part of her day in. Trousers, boots, full length sleeved top, waistcoat, long, flowing cardigan, scarf – all in cheerful autumn colours. Her favourite.

Descending the stairs moments later the charred, slightly acidic scent of burnt food meets her nostrils, and Grace automatically wrinkles her nose in distaste.  _Oh God, what on earth has he done,_ she asks herself, distinctly remembering hearing the sound of breaking glass before all the shouting started.

The answer it seems, as she pushes the kitchen door open, is a lot. The floor is indeed littered with shards of shattered glass, as well as the remnants of something half cooked but far from distinguishable, preventing her from taking a step further with any degree of safety. Most of the surfaces, and a good proportion of her errant, near-naked lover, are coated in a thin layer of white powder, the implement jar in which she keeps a healthy collection of wooden spoons and their similarly sized culinary cousins has been upended, the contents strewn across the – thankfully unlit – stove, and a jar of her favourite jam seems to have exploded up the side of one of the cupboard doors.

Standing very still, Grace takes it all in, thoughts of grabbing a quick cup of tea and a slice of toast evaporating entirely at the sight of the disaster spreading out before her. In the middle of it all, and looking impressively shell-shocked, Boyd is trying to find the right words.

"I – " he begins, expression bewildered, as though he himself cannot believe what has happened around him.

She holds up a hand to stop him before he gets any further. "I don't want to know."

"But I – "

Grace shakes her head, indicates the tea towel in his hand. "That's smoking, and it's very close to your… skin."

Boyd looks down, sees the imminent danger as tiny flames flicker along the hem of the dark blue cloth mere inches from the only item of fabric he's currently wearing, and then actually yelps as he yanks it away from his body and pivots, thrusting it into the sink and turning the tap on full blast.

Hiding a smirk, and supressing an eye roll, she tells him, "I'll see you later."

Turning back to face her, Boyd shakes his head. "Wait, you can't go yet. I'm making you breakfast…" he trails off before nearing the end of his sentence, more than a little crestfallen. She feels sorry for him, she really does, but equally so, she can't afford to wait any longer for him to create something out of the calamity surrounding them both.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, with considerable kindness, because though he has undoubtedly comprehensively trashed her formerly neat and tidy kitchen, his intentions and well-meaning character streak are thoroughly endearing.

"You can't leave without breakfast," he insists.

Grace surveys the mess yet again. Lifts a pointed eyebrow in response.

He gets the message, lifts his hands in a half-hearted and indistinct but acquiescent response. "It's a bit of a crisis, I know, but if you just wait a few minutes…"

"Peter, I haven't got time for a crisis – my schedule for the day is fully booked and I'm already running late as it is."

"Just five minutes," he wheedles, giving her a pleading, very hopeful smile.

Grace sighs, fights the temptation to give in. "You said that when the alarm went off," she points out. "And it was most definitely a  _lot_  more than five minutes, which is why I'm now running late."

Predictably, his shoulders straighten, his chest puffs out just a little, and a look of pure smugness settles over his face. "You're right," he smirks, "it was."

"Grow up."

"Why?"

"Because I said so?" she tries. It doesn't go anywhere, not that she expected it to. He's not paying attention anymore, but studying her instead, suddenly very intent. "What?" she asks, wondering what he's unexpectedly so preoccupied with.

He takes a step towards her, and then another. "You're wearing layers," he replies, voice dropping lower, taking on a deep, husky note of interest.

Grace holds up a hand, palm out, and takes a quick step backwards. "Down boy," she warns, firmly. "You're a mess, and I've got one hundred and fifty undergraduates to impress."

"But you're wearing layers," he repeats, and the interest in his gaze is only growing as he moves even closer.

_It's a cold winter night and the living room is lit by candles and a roaring fire because, returning home from a quiet, intimate dinner, they'd found the world in darkness and the power out. Now there's wine and warmth and lazy kisses that deepen with ease and growing passion, wandering hands and whispered words of covetous intent._

" _You and layers," he growls into her ear, his breath hot and rapid against her hair as he presses urgently against her, reaching around the front of her body to start slowly undoing the long strip of tiny buttons there._

" _Sorry," she murmurs, thoroughly distracted by the way he's now nuzzling her neck, his teeth nipping lightly at her sensitive skin as he explores._

" _Don't be." It's a deep, raspy purr, one that sends powerful shivers radiating through her entire body as his hips crowd closer, leaving her in absolutely no doubt about how completely aroused he is. "It's like unwrapping the best Christmas present ever."_

Back in the here and now, she smirks at him, takes another deliberate pace backwards, creating more space between them. Watches the expression flicker and change on his face, knows in exactly how much detail he's imagining peeling away those layers to get at what he wants.

"You're incorrigible," she informs him lightly.

"And?" he challenges, hands now resting on the doorframe as he watches her.

He's a mess, undoubtedly, she thinks, studying him, but he's an interestingly dishevelled mess. Hair a tornado of displaced spikes, skin dusted with what she strongly suspects is flour, arms and shoulders nicely displayed as he leans his weight forward on the doorframe…

 _Oh get a grip,_  she tells herself firmly.  _He may be incorrigible, but you're the bloody same._

"And… hold that thought for later tonight." She winks at him, gives him a sly smile that never fails to capture his interest, and then turns away to gather her handbag and keys.

"See you later, Peter. Try and behave yourself while I'm gone."

"I'll try," he tells her solemnly. "But I can't promise anything."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she retorts.

She reaches the door, fumbles for the right key to unlock it. Hears him call out a gentle, "Grace…"

When she looks up, he's right there beside her, looking down at her, all the levity gone. "Yes?"

"Two things. One, promise me you'll try and get something to eat and drink on the way in."

Incredibly protective, and very sweet about it, she thinks, even as she says, "I don't need looking after, you know."

Arms folded, he leans back against the door. "Oh, you do, Grace. You really do."

Considering their recent history, he perhaps has a bit of a point, she muses, not that she has any intention of telling him that. "If you say so," she shrugs, then adds, "and yes, I will. I promise."

"Good." He straightens, leans towards her. "And two…"

His lips are soft, his kiss tender, a tiny bit more than brief. When he pulls back, his fingers brush against her cheek, affectionate, loving. "Have a good day, you'll be brilliant. I love you."

He's really something when he wants to be, she thinks, finally unlocking the door.

She smiles, stands on tiptoe to kiss him back. "See you tonight. I love you, too."


End file.
